


A Blessing for the Damned

by seemewithacrown (infinifty)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinifty/pseuds/seemewithacrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great Supposedly Dead James Moriarty turns up on Sebastian Moran's doorstep, high as a kite and dangerous as ever.</p><p>Angst, then sex. Just as you love it, admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's a snowy winter night, the kind you're more than happy to stay at home on, that Sebastian Moran gets a call from his dead boss.

"Sebastiaaan!" he sings into Sebastian's ear as soon as the call is accepted. Sebastian doesn't quite make the connection between the annoying, high and slightly insane sounding greeting and James Moriarty. Not quite. Not yet.

He was just lazing around on the couch in his flat, half-heartedly watching some... show where a woman just got a check over one hundred thousand pounds for something. She was crying. A pathetic sight, really.

"Hello?" he replies carefully. Probably an old friend Sebastian forgot, drunken calling at this hour for whatever reason.

"Sebastiannn," the man repeats, this time lingering on the N. "Sebastian, I can't get this door down here open and I'm too high to read the name tags and find your doorbell."

Just then it clicks for Sebastian, that kind of click that makes you feel hot and cold all over, like waking up on the train and realising you've missed your stop by hours.

"Who is this?" he simply asks, because it'd just sound foolish to assume anything yet. Might be someone else. Sebastian doesn't know if he'd bring the name over his lips anyway.

There's a giggle on the other end of the line. "It's me, Jim, you little silly...!" And with that, he stops. No explanation. No reasoning. Nothing.

"Jim Moriarty? You should be dead." Sebastian would like to think that he sounded incredibly steady when he said that, but only because no one was there to notice the way his voice cracked at the last word.

"Oh, and I will be, darling, if you don't get me in this instant!"

Sebastian thinks about just ending the call and never thinking about it again. He must be imagining things. It's probably the grief, yes. Maybe some gas leak and he's hallucinating. 

But as much as he wanted to, he can't bring himself to not press the buzzer, go into the hallway and look down the stairs to see who'd be coming.

"Did you get in?" he asks the phone hesitantly.

"Ye-hes!" it echoes high pitched in the hallway as someone begins pounding up the stairs.

Soon, Sebastian is faced with something he never wanted to see again and can't stop seeing in his nightmares: Jim Moriarty's face.

He's grinning like a madman, obviously on some kind of drug, but at least he's wearing an incredibly thick black parka that looks ridiculous above his skinny legs, clad in some kind of women's cut jeans.

"Don't you wanna let me in, Sebastiaaan?" the supposedly dead man asks without ever not grinning.

Sebastian just points to the open door leading to his apartment, and Jim happily skips through it, then stops in Sebastian's living room. It's only lit by the TV, so Sebastian turns on the lights and then, on second thought, mutes the TV.

He turns back to Jim to see him still grinning like a lunatic.

Sebastian figures it's because of the drugs, and moves in front of Jim to get that horrible parka off of him. He starts sliding down the zipper and asks, "So why aren't you six feet under? Not that I don't appreciate you, in the middle of the night and high as a kite."

Jim's voice suddenly sounds pained, or possibly angered. "I wanted to, I really wanted to, but I couldn't do it, it was such a perfect end to my story, yet I just couldn't kill myself, so I faked it because I couldn't do it."

He's wearing a loose white V-neck that looks at least two sizes too big under the parka which Sebastian then carefully slides off of him. He can't help but notice how thin Jim's arms are; Sure, they always were, but even the little muscle he used to have from shooting and hitting and torturing seems to be gone.

"Jim, what have you been doing?" Sebastian knows that it's probably the best to keep Jim talking because you never know how much of what he took and whether he's going to wake up once he falls asleep.

He steps back to get a better view of Jim's body and decides it's most likely necessary to check him for injuries. Though no blood can be seen on his clothing, Jim is incredibly blind to his body's needs. One time, only once though, he got injured: Broke a few ribs and insisted on finishing the job without seeing a doctor. Sebastian doubts his ribs ever healed properly and doesn't really want to imagine the pain Jim must've gone through.

"Oh, little jobs, here and there, blowing up a bank in Russia, killing the prime minister's daughter in Greece, just to remind people I'm not really dead yet," Jim explains while Sebastian takes off his V-neck tee. He even holds up his arms, how very generous.

Though what Sebastian finds underneath it isn't a very pleasant view: Explosives, all kinds, strapped firmly to the man's upper body which has lost all muscle and most fat it ever might have seen and now mostly consists of bones and skin. It's a shocking sight, really. Though the explosives-thing is definitely more of a pressing matter right now.

He takes a careful step back and says with caution, "Why do you have enough C4 on you to kill everyone and everything within a mile's radius?"

The look on Jim's face turns to childlike confusion as he answers, "I don't think I can remember. Oh, all that nice snow..."

Sebastian decides to make the best of Jim's clouded state of mind and simply begins unbuckling the belts holding the explosives to Jim's small frame. One by one, they slide off easily and Sebastian puts the three of them carefully on the ground.

"I always hated listening to my sister cry herself to sleep at night," Jim says absent-mindedly.

"You don't have a sister and you're incapable of empathy," Sebastian reminds the both of them. Jim's brain could create the most interesting stories when under the influence of drugs, sometimes dreamy and peaceful, sometimes nightmarish visions of things Sebastian didn't even want to hear about. It must be bad, for Jim, to imagine all of these things. But then again, it's not like anything could ever keep him away from drugs.

"Mh hm," Jim hums as if agreeing while Sebastian opens his trousers to slide them off of the thin body, too.

Just then, it hits him how bad the situation is: Not even a very, very intoxicated Jim would agree with Sebastian. Nor would he, in any state of mind, _not_ make a remark at Sebastian taking his clothes off.  
Sebastian wonders what took this kind of toll on him.

There are some knives strapped to Jim's thighs, too, and they weren't thoroughly secured, so now there are some nasty cuts on his milky and skinny legs. Nothing that couldn't wait until next morning though.

Sebastian kneels down in front of Jim to remove the knives (plus his shoes and socks) and asks, "How have you been, Jim?", just to keep the man talking.

"I've been a fucking wreck," he replies in that absent tone of voice, "I haven't been eating, I can never remember if I've slept too much or not at all and I've been careless about everything."

Finally, the knives are removed, and Sebastian gets up again to be startled by Jim staring directly at his face.

"Please, Sebastian," he murmurs while Sebastian goes to stash away the weapons somewhere safe (in the bathroom, somewhere behind the toilet, he decides) and already starts wondering how he should occupy Jim so the guy doesn't fall asleep. 

"What, please?" he calls from the bathroom. When he comes back into the living room, Jim is suddenly sprawled on the couch, one leg on the couch and one on the floor, spread invitingly wide. He doesn't try to cover up his growing erection, or isn't even aware of it.

"Can you fuck me, please? Just like old times?"

Sebastian should be taken aback, really, but he can't bring himself to even look surprised.

"No, Jim, I'm not going to fuck you if you're this high. I'd be taking advantage of you." He helps Jim up who doesn't have the strength or the willpower to resist. Then he guides him into the kitchen and safely positions him on one of the wooden chairs.

"Oh, of course, since you're usually such a fucking saint," Jim responds. Sebastian starts making coffee. Jim then adds, "Tell me then, how many people have you killed while I wasn't paying attention?"

Of course. Even if laying on the ground, beaten black and blue, James Moriarty could always find that one place where it stings.

Sebastian considers lying but is aware that Jim knows the truth either way. It was impossible for him not to know.

"One."

Sebastian doesn't want to tell the story and prays to every version of an omnipotent God that Jim doesn't make him.

When there is no reaction by Jim whatsoever, he risks a careful glance at him and sees that the man is shivering violently. Sebastian knows that these tremors are far too powerful to come from simple hypothermia, so he puts his arms around the pathetic little body again and practically carries him to the bathroom.

After helping Jim put on a bathrobe (obviously too big, but very comfortable), Sebastian can do nothing but watch while the small guy metaphorically pukes out his soul.

He sits down on the edge of the bath tub and considers the sight before him: The Great Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, a slave to his mind's needs, so much they almost kill him. Distractions, distractions, anything but facing the cruel, cruel world.

Sebastian thinks about counting Jim's ribs or running his hands over his spine (you can see it far too well) but then it's already over.

Jim wipes his mouth with the sleeve of the bathrobe (it needed a wash again anyway) and slouches forward before slowly sinking back. Sebastian steadies him, throws a quick glance into the toilet to see some undigested pills with relief, and decides that Jim is more than ready for bed.

He carries him bridal style because throwing him over his shoulder, as tempting as it is, would cause too much trouble to Jim's trachea and all that stuff in that area (Sebastian's always learned by doing, not by reading a Wikipedia article so he's not a big fan of technical terms, thank you very much).

After depositing the sleeping bundle of bones and fluffy bathrobe on the bed, Sebastian turns off the TV and puts the bucket from under the kitchen counter next to Jim's side of the bed. Once he's actually laid down, sleep grasps him quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awakening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheezus Christ, it's been more than a year. I won't go into detail.
> 
> I just wrote this tonight and didn't even read it twice. I just needed to get this done. :)  
> If you find any mistakes, please tell me. Thanks. <3

Just as Sebastian was making the first early-morning-coffee, Jim stumbled in. Well, he didn't stumble. The great Moriarty never stumbles. Jim strutted in, smug as ever, in a pair of Sebastian's briefs and a red button-up shirt.

He looked like a little boy, so skinny and vulnerable. But as soon as he spoke, that sweet illusion was gone.

"How's long's that coffee taking? And what's for breakfast? I have business waiting."

Just like old times. Sometimes they ate together. Sitting on both ends of the almost-wooden kitchen table. Jim telling Sebastian things he'd get sentenced for life for like he was talking about the weather. Morning conversations.

"If you want breakfast, make yourself some. And don't talk to me like that. I owe you nothing."

Jim sat down on one of the chairs, elbows on his thighs, and sighed. He looked at Sebastian as though the latter was a child who didn't quite know its place.

"You owe me everything. Your life, your money, your apartment, and the fact that your pretty face isn't torn into pieces yet. Now, please, stop wasting your own time and mine."

Like business partners. Like strangers.

"Don't you dare! You made me so fucking dependent to you, and then you just fucking die on me! And now you're in my house, demanding breakfast like I'm your fucking house wife!"

Sebastian was angry. The anger went from his stomach, boiling, up to his throat and let him scream every syllable he said. So desperate. So desperate for peace.

Jim stood up, walked over to where Sebastian was leaning against a counter. He took Sebastian's head in his hands and rammed his own against Sebastian's nose.

It was quite blinding. Sebastian wasn't really awake yet either way, but that blow really finished him. He was used to pain, of course, as well as fist fights, but being hit by Jim was a first and he didn't know how to react.

His knees went weak and he sat down. Jim simply stood, with his arms crossed, waiting. Like he'd just ordered a fucking Frappucino, little bastard, Sebastian thought as he held his nose. To add insult to injury, it bled quite badly.

When he finally and fully got to his senses again, he looked down at his shirt, and, realising it was primarily red now anyway, cleaned his face with it. He took it off and looked back at Jim.

Sebastian wanted to break down, maybe cry, maybe scream. He's been 17 months and five days without Jim Moriarty. In the first five months he couldn't sleep. Always awake in his bed, waiting for Jim to knock loudly on his door and revealing his grand trick. Then, for the next four months, he slept too much. He'd get up in the afternoon, eat a dry piece of toast and drink enough whiskey to fall asleep in the early evening again. And in the past eight months he's been making a living as a construction worker. Dirty work, but still enough to keep affording toast and whiskey.

And now, Jim just turns up again. Just like that. With no attempt to apologize in any way. Well, what did Sebastian expect? A bouquet of flowers? He was actually quite lucky to get a broken nose as a souvenir. Maybe Jim was gone for another year or two tomorrow.

Just then, he got angry. Very angry. At himself and the man who can't say "I missed you", or "I like you", or even "Thank you". At himself because he chained his very own mind and body to that man, that horrible, cruel, horrifying man. For letting himself get so low for someone of such little worth.

"Fuck you, Moriarty."  
Before Sebastian could control himself, he got up, got a hold of Jim's neck and slammed his forehead into the kitchen table. Something cracked. Sebastian hoped it was Jim's head.

Silence.

Jim made no attempt to turn around. He rested his hands on the table and stayed like that. Sebastian breathed hard. The coffee machine beeped three times.

Fuck it, Sebastian thought or maybe said out loud. He grabbed Jim's skinny hips and turned him around before shoving his thighs up so Jim could sit down on the table.

Sebastian could waste all his life living some kind of shitty Ikea-advertisement, marrying some drinks-all-his-Jack-Daniel's-and-bleeds-once-a-month-bitch and decorating his fucking dirty-ass flat with fake flowers and plastic vases.

He took Jim's face in his hand and let their lips collide, teeth clanking. The smaller man whined at the uncomfortable act and Sebastian responded by closing one hand around Jim's throat. His breathing got shallow.

Fuck the Ikea-ad. Sebastian wanted this, no matter how much it hurt. He needed the pain inflicted upon himself to enjoy the pain he could inflict upon others. He needed the anger, the sleep issues, the bullshit. He needed rage. And rage, he got.

He broke the kiss to growl at Jim, letting go of his throat. Jim gulped in a huge breath and looked at Sebastian wide eyed.

Then a grin formed on his face. "Finally", the little bastard whispered. 

"Shut the fuck up and take of your pants." Jim only just obliged as Sebastian turned away to get the olive oil from one of the kitchen cupboards.

"Olive oil? Is that all that you've got?"

Sebastian had his hand at Jim's throat again in light speed, the precious olive oil in the other hand. "I told you to shut the fuck up, you little bitch."

Jim's facial expression turned to very, very angry, the "I'll skin you and burn you and then I'll kill you"-angry but as soon as Sebastian's grip on his throat tightened, he just moaned hoarsely.

Sebastian let go of Jim's throat then and the other man put his heels on the table, spreading his legs and giving Sebastian a nice view of his erection and ass. Sebastian, of course, didn't give a shit about Jim's erection. For once, this was not about him. This was about Sebastian, his pleasure and his pain.

He coated two of his fingers carefully with oil, some drops landing on the floor. Then he spread Jim's ass cheeks with one hand and began shoving one finger in, soon to be joined by another. Just like Sebastian's were all these years, this morning Jim's moans of pain, and sometimes pleasure were ignored. Disregarded like collateral damage.

Jim was tight when Sebastian entered him, of course, two fingers weren't enough. But it wasn't supposed to be enough.  
He began moving slow, not to save the other man the pain but simply because he couldn't go much faster. Jim's attempts to jerk himself off were met by Sebastian slapping his hands away and later returning his hand to his throat.

It wasn't that pleasurable. To Sebastian, it felt like... nothing. Like it wasn't real. Or maybe it wasn't supposed to be. Every time Sebastian felt himself drift away from the situation at hand he forced himself to go harder. Jim enjoyed it anyway.

"Fucking slut", Sebastian moaned and it was the truth.

He felt trapped by the hot wetness that was Jim Moriarty. So pliant and submissive beneath him but still in control. How did he do that? Was it some kind of magic trick? Or was it Sebastian's fault?

Sooner or later, it was over. They both got dressed again. There was emptiness in Sebastian, in his apartment, in that whole damn city.

He didn't know how to get rid of it, so he learned to live with it.

"Get me some breakfast." Jim demanded.

"Coming right up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPS MORE ANGST TEEHEE

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an Omegle RP convo that ended way too soon.  
> The sex will be in the second chapter, don't you worry.


End file.
